


In Morning's Hush

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Awkward Conversations, Best Friends, Canon Temporary Character Death, Doctor Feels (Doctor Who), I'm Sorry, John Feels, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Time War, Strangers, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Who did you lose?"<em></em></em>
</p><p>Two war-torn Doctors sit together on a bench.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Morning's Hush

Just as he did every morning, John Watson woke up crying. The whole room was quiet aside from his ragged sobs and—just as he did every morning—John heard Sherlock casually but brusquely asking his usual question:

_“What’s the matter?”_

John didn’t answer the ghost, nor did he press his eyes closed against the nightmarish phone call memory. He had learned by now that it never helped. Lunging out of bed, he sped to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

The warm water was _physically_ comforting, but it did not cleanse John’s mind of all those disturbing images. Whimpering quietly, he sank down to the shower floor and tried to remember how breathing worked.

 _Control. That’s what matters. You have to control yourself—for him. He wouldn’t ever want to see you like this_. That was the only thing that helped John stand on shaky legs and finish washing his hair.

He was soon on the street, lying to himself and calling this his ‘morning walk’. He was wandering hopelessly, looking for something that would never be there again. His lost expression made most people avoid him. Anyone would did talk to him had only empty sympathies that John didn’t want. There were only a few who understood what he was going through—

Why did he always end up here? Every time he started to think of Sherlock’s other friends, those who knew his grief—Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson—he found himself frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at the spot only two steps in front of him. People slammed into his back and cursed at him for being in their way, but John barely heard. His head lifted skyward and he mouthed the word ‘Sherlock’ into the morning’s hush.

He was in front of the hospital, watching it all happen again. His eyes began at the edge of the building’s roof, falling down, down, down, down and crashing at his feet. John flinched, drawing in a sharp breath as he pivoted and fled from that place, hating himself for being drawn there _again_!

He ended up at a bus stop, waiting for a bus he didn’t know was coming. Trying to keep his breathing steady, John watched people walk by, mentally spitting a curse at each of them for being so bloody normal. He had just seen a glimmer of greatness rise and fall and probably never would agai—

Body heat slammed into John’s right shoulder as a fellow bus waiter parked next to him and rested his elbows on his knees. At first John felt miffed that this new arrival was intruding on his personal bench, but then he remembered that was something Sherlock might assume and shook the thought away before he said something insulting.

The two sat in silence for a long while, John eventually letting his curiosity win and glancing over. The other man was staring straight ahead, likely lost in his own thoughts, so John felt free to look him over. He was thin and pale, clad entirely in black. John admired his leather jacket for a moment and then froze as the stranger shifted towards him. Blue eyes met brown and held.

“Who did you lose?”

John’s mouth opened slightly. It was such a blunt question, something Sherlock might have said during an investigation. Familiar feelings of disbelief and confusion were stirring. How did he know—?

Just like Sherlock, the man recognized the unasked question and answered, his voice leaking traces of Northern origin: “I lost someone too—well, a lot of someones. I feel it comin’ off you.”

“I...” John drew in a sharp breath, trying to pull himself together when he hadn’t even known he was falling apart. “I lost my best friend.” Clearing his throat, he glanced away and muttered, “My only friend, if it comes down to it.”

The man paused contemplatively. “Sorry.”

John scoffed slightly. “I wish I could hear him say that. He—he _killed himself_.”

“A bloody idiot then?”

“Yeh.”

“But also the most brilliant, fantastic friend you’ve ever had?”

John felt confusion stir again as he nodded wordlessly.

“Hm. My friends used to say the same about me. They were right, of course,” the man assured him. “I never admitted it, but I knew they were right.”

“But he was _stupid_!” John burst out furiously. “He just jumped off that building like lives depended on it and he—” Hissing tearfully, he buried his head in his hands. “I should’ve been able to save him. I’m a doctor; I was supposed to _save_ him!”

“I know the feeling,” the stranger agreed grimly.

“How?!” John demanded, lifting his face to glare at the man.

“I’m a Doctor too. My friends, my family, they were all taken cos I couldn’t save them.”

Still unconvinced that this person’s suffering was greater than his, John snapped cynically, “What ‘ _took’_ them?”

The other man’s blue gaze darkened, like a summer sky conquered by an oncoming storm. “War.”

That was something with which John could definitely sympathize. His frown eased fractionally and he tore their eyes apart, apologizing under his breath.

“S’fine,” the stranger brushed him off. Standing abruptly, he jammed his hands in his pockets and started to leave in long strides.

John felt a sudden panic and jumped up, hurrying to catch up with him. “Where are you going? Aren’t you waiting for the bus?”

The doctor halted just as abruptly, throwing a hand out behind him. “No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Please, will you do this for me?”

The words had their desired effect; John was instantly paralyzed, staring at that pale, slender hand anchoring him where he was.

“No more.” The Northern drawl thickened as he said it again. “No _more_. Goodbye, John.”

John didn’t even wonder how the other man, who had broken into a run into the distance, knew his name. People slammed into his back and cursed at him for being in their way, but John barely heard. His head lifted skyward and he mouthed the word ‘Doctor’ into the morning’s hush. He had just seen a glimmer of greatness rise and fall and probably never would again.

That night, just as he did every night, John Watson fell asleep crying.

 

_When you awaken in morning's hush,_

_I am the swift uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circle flight,_

_I am soft stars that shine at night._

_Don't stand beside my grave and cry—_

_I am not there; I did not die._


End file.
